


Qualmë

by AnnaFan



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Failure of the criminal justice system, Other, Rape (off screen), Rape Trial, Shieldmaidens rock, Writing fanfic as catharsis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 14:50:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8289742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaFan/pseuds/AnnaFan
Summary: Sometimes it feels like the criminal justice system is stacked against women.  In fact, a lot of the time it does.  What we need in our fantasies is a Shieldmaiden.





	

Her arm was feeling much improved by the regular exercise. Éowyn made her way down to the practise ground, sword belt nestling comfortably about her hips. Every day, she worked through the patterns her old sword master in Edoras had taught her: the offensive moves on the front foot, the defensive moves, the parries, the foot patterns. Now her strength was beginning to return, she spent an hour or so each day, running through the ritualised sets of moves that were the basis of the art of swordsmanship, and practising strokes against the massive oak models of soldiers under the portico of the college of the military arts. Today, she was rather late in her training; knowing that Faramir was due to sit in judgement in court that day, and that he would be unlikely to finish in time for them to sup together, somehow the whole day had got out of kilter and she had let all her activities slip by an hour or two.

Trying to make up for lost time, she strode out, skirts billowing. She would have preferred breeches, but knew that the scandalised reaction of the Gondorians she met in the streets would not make it worth the effort. Her route was now familiar to her, winding its way from the houses of healing down through narrow lanes initially, then along a much broader street, flanked by grand civic buildings. At last she reached the entrance to the college. She passed under the huge arch in the outer wall, and began to make her way along the colonnade which flanked the practise ground. A surprising sound met her ears. She was used to practising in near solitude. Most of the men of arms in Minas Tirith were at Cormallen, or in the houses of healing, or dead beneath the burial mounds on the Pelennor. But this was a man's voice, uttering rhythmic shouts, an expostulation uttered with great force, over and over again.

“K'may!”

The the ringing noise of metal hitting wood.

“K'may!”

Again, the sound of metal hitting wood.

“K'may!”

And again. The shouts were explosive, barked from the guts. She recalled the techniques of hand-to-hand fighting an Easterling mercenary had taught her brother and his comrades, one summer at Aldburg. The moment of application of greatest force was accompanied by a shout, to help focus the blow, to transfer the energy from the centre of one's being into the blow – this was what the sell-sword had explained. It seemed this warrior used the same technique. But there was more force in the words than her brother, or his comrades, or indeed his teacher, had ever used. This was genuine aggression, fury even, being focussed into blows on a wooden dummy.

She rounded the corner into the portico and froze. Even from the back, she would now recognise that figure anywhere. His height, his wiry, muscular build, his stance, the dark hair reaching just below the nape of the neck. It was Faramir.

He was working through an exercise she knew by the name of “the four winds,” systematically working through the killing blows from each direction. Cautiously she moved along the arcade fronting the portico. As his face came into view, she could see his lips, tight and white with anger, his brow drawn into a frown.

Then suddenly, he noticed her. He let his sword hand drop, then laid his weapon on the floor.

“Éowyn, my love… How foolish of me – I never thought I would be likely to see you here.” His cheeks flushed slightly. He ran his hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face in that gesture which was now so familiar to her. “I'm sorry, I fear I am not likely to be good company at the moment.”

Éowyn walked across the portico and, unbuckling her sword belt and setting it to one side, sat in one of the niches that lined the wall. She gestured to Faramir to join her.

“Is it something that has happened today? Do you wish to talk about it?”

“If I said that currently I feel ashamed of my country and my office, would that suffice?” He sat down beside her, staring straight in front of him. She studied his profile – his aquiline nose, the fact that she could see his adam's apple move as he swallowed. She waited. Finally, he spoke, his voice filled with bitterness.

“I do not often – well, have not often – sat in judgement on criminal cases. I have been a soldier most of my life. It was a case of rape – except that it wasn't. But it should have been.”

Éowyn found herself frowning in puzzlement. “How so?”

“The accused was a nobleman of some standing – and with a good war record, had spent his time with the fleet at the mouths of Anduin, defending the coast against corsairs. His standing as a noble ensured that the case had to be heard by the Steward rather than a magistrate. The victim was a widow – and therein lies the problem. When I heard the evidence, it seemed like a clear cut case. He was guilty as sin. Witnesses had heard the struggle, seen him leave, seen the condition of the victim – bruises and knife wounds.

“But then the defence counsel pointed out that under the criminal statutes for rape, only a virgin or a married woman can be raped. It is either a crime against the woman's purity, which apparently vanishes the first time she lies with a man...” Faramir's curled lip and snort of disgust left Éowyn in no doubt as to his contrary opinion on this matter, “Or a crime against property – her husband's property, namely her! The defence counsel said as a widow she was clearly not a virgin, but no longer had a husband… therefore, no crime.”

Éowyn let loose a string of Rohirric oaths.

“I tried, dammit, I tried. Although I am not versed in the minutiae of criminal law, nonetheless I tried to argue that the basis and origin of Numenorean law was the _Laws and Customs of the Eldar_ , and that _amapta_ was clearly held by the first born to be one of the most heinous crimes possible, not because it was a crime against purity or property, but because it was a crime against the _fea_ of another person.”

“And...”

“The defence counsel produced the relevant statues, dating back to the time of – I might have guessed – Ar Pharazon. During his reign, the current definition of rape, distinct from the ancient Elvish understanding of _ampata_ , was clearly and unambiguously defined as the defence counsel had stated. Lord Hurin of the keys read the relevant passage from statutes allowed and concurred with the defence interpretation.”

“Can you not change it?”

“I shall as soon as possible, if King Elessar grants me the freedom to do so, but I cannot change it to apply retrospectively.”

“Why did Ar Pharazon change the law? Why would anyone frame a law in that way?”

“Because he usurped the throne by raping the reigning queen, Tar Miriel. Another facet of the 'law' he passed was to establish that where a man had raped a virgin, he could right his wrongs by marrying the woman in question – and the only way she could avoid agreeing to the marriage would be to deny that she had been a virgin – in which case it would not have counted as rape, and her moral stature would be so diminished that she would lose all social standing – in Miriel's case, be judged unfit to reign.”

“Béma, I can see why you were carving holes in that oak.”

“It gets worse. I then tried to press for a guilty verdict on the lesser charge of grievous bodily harm. The bastard claimed his right to trial by combat – but the widow has no living adult male relatives – they all fell in the war, her husband included. So she has no-one who can act as her champion, as the law says it must be a relative.”

He turned to Éowyn, his face grave and sad. “I feel as though I have failed you as well as her… failed all the women I know.”

Éowyn wriggled along the stone bench and took his hand in hers. They sat in silence for a long time. Eventually Éowyn spoke.

“When you were fighting, you kept yelling something – k'may. What does it mean?”

“Ah, if one takes the time to say it correctly, it is _qualmë_ – death. Violent, brutal death.”

“So, no prizes for guessing who the wooden dummy was in your mind.”

“None.” Faramir gave a bitter laugh. “Sadly though – as a member of the judiciary, I cannot be the one who enters into trial by combat, even were I her relative.” Éowyn slipped her arm round his waist, and he brought his head down to rest against the crown of hers. Again, there was silence, again broken by Éowyn.

“Ah! - þearfendlícan swuster.”

“What?” asked Faramir.

“A 'need-sister'. In the Riddermark, when a woman is left widowed and indigent, another woman of independent means may name her as her need-sister, with the same legal relationship as a sister. Two questions: would Gondor recognise such a relationship, if contracted in accordance with the law of the Eorlings, and is the Gondorian definition of 'relative' restricted to men?”

“Yes, if contracted by someone recognised as of the relevant legal standing among the Rohirrim. No, it is not restricted to men – I don't think it crossed Ar Pharazon's mind to imagine a woman like you.” Faramir's face broke into a genuine smile for the first time, but his smile faded quickly. “But… are you sufficiently recovered?”

“I am the slayer of the witch king. Do you doubt me?”

Faramir lifted her hand to his lips. “Never.”

“Then let me seek out Elfhelm – as Marshal, he has the authority to declare your widow my need-sister.”

~o~O~o~

The foreign word felt slightly strange on Éowyn's lips.

“K'may.” 

The explosion of breath came from deep in her belly as she drove her sword home into the man's throat. She stood over him, sword poised, as the life blood ebbed from him. Then she wiped her sword clean on his cloak, and held her sword aloft in salutation, first to her þearfendlícan swuster, then to her betrothed. Faramir nodded, his face serious, but she could see the pride shining in his eyes.


End file.
